My breath
Deep inside those
Pockets
Is the change
You’d wished
Held meaning

From the wallet
Filled with reasons
For believing
Life
Had none.

That’s me
Unworthy of air –

Finding hope
Where cash
Was folded

Along threaded lines
Through denim
Near their dollars
Placed
On seams,

That dividing line
Like fear
When cruelty sworn
Was shelter
Becomes answers
Dreaming freedoms
Between fringes
Cut
By truth.

These ties
Are tattered cloth,

Our ambitions
Different measures –

Such anger
Wounded bodies
Patching lies
We’ve always sewn.

My blood
Has only words,
Never rags
Or leather pouches

Holding wealth
Which fears us
Naked,

Bearing needs
No soul can grasp.

Good art
Shows signs
Of wear,

Just as fashion
Tells
Its story –

This “loser son”
Will sport them,
Each abuse
Called “love”
They sold.

– J. Pigno